I was the walrus
the fool on the hill
and the nowhere man
I would be nowhere still
but many a hard day’s night
it was you who held my hand
down this long and winding road
now it won’t be long to Pepperland
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
S oon I’ll be leaving for the moon
though mars is where I want to go
big red will simply have to wait
zero hour’s 10 AM today
liftoff will take me into space
I’ll then be heading for the moon
rocketman’s weightless wonderland
this earth will no longer hold me
see — mars is very far away
very far’s where I want to be
though I’m soon leaving for the moon
it’s not quite far enough for me
of course, I’ll always love you dear
yes darling, yes — I’ll miss you too
I remember — I said we’d wed
but today, I leave for the moon
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: dVerse
Meet my maddening muse
at times
he’s so unfocused
unclear
uncentered
he can be unsettled
unleveled
disheveled
his message fractured
misaligned
garbled
though I try to interpret
it’s just a blur
amorphous
it’s so aggravating
even infuriating
no solid inspiration
aswim in desperation
each night
becomes each morning
here I sit
in the wee hours
while the sane sleep
I’m steeped
in contradiction
hypnotized in trance
watching concepts dance
thoughts vague
filled with doubt
words tossed about
the unyielding page
I start
then stop
I write
then not
I’m caught
it’s all mercilessly unclear
debilitating confusion
an exasperating delusion
an unreachable conclusion
terminal hesitation
mad mental extrapolation
jostled communication
oh hell
it’s creative constipation
utter agitation
supreme frustration
jumbled afterimages
of conflicting thoughts
bring quiet rage
fickle muse — please
just a spark
to squelch this dark
that grips me like a cage
I’m seekin’ clarity
not charity
shine a lil’light
I’ll do the write
just settle
damnit
settle!
“Seeking the Muse” by: rob kistner © 2007
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
Like it was yesterday, I remember the tear in the after-market black vinyl top, with the pastel blue factory color showing through. It was my used Karman Ghia. I always wondered, “why the top?” Didn’t really care all that much, it was our ‘party bug’, and we had a ball riding around — especially the weekends when both my insane schedule, and my parental visitations coincided, enabling our quartet to sing out on the Tears For Fears songs we loved. It was the tape that wouldn’t eject, stuck permanently in the Lear Jet 8-track tape deck that rattled, at times, under the dash panel. I’d installed it best I could — but, hey… We didn’t care though, we got to know and love every tune on “Songs From The Big Chair”.
I remember I would pick your older sister up first, then quickly she and I would head to your house, and pick you boys up. The two of you would scramble into the back, and with your sister ridin’ shot gun, the four of us would cruise Cincinnati’s 7 hills, singing TFF at the top of our lungs, people peering in at us like we were crazy. We were crazy — crazy with laughter, loving our too-seldom times together. We did the same craziness on the way to my coaching your sister in soccer, and you guys in football. Also, when we all went to the movies, or to get fast food — hell, we did it all the time… and we loved it!
I occasionally dream about all of us rockin’ that old Ghia. Today we couldn’t all fit in, even if I still had it these decades later. Also today, as you know, we could be only a trio. We lost your beautiful voice much too early. Your sister, younger brother, and I were utterly devastated, and we still ache so, when we feel the void, and your missing harmony son — though we seldom are able to be together anymore. Life, time, and distance make it a most difficult challenge these days. But those rare precious moments we are able, our love still sings — and your sweet voice is still now, and will forever be, painfully missing.
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
Why
really… why
this is your first question here…
why?
well…
probably because I was exhausted
a night of tequila does that to me
I vaguely remember…
I nearly crashed the Range Rover
drivin’ home last night
and there’s another great question…
where…
…where the hell did I park
that damned P440e
but…
the question
that had me most intrigued
when I woke up this morning
and carefully looked around
was…
HOW the fuck!?
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
See this abomination
this abomination begat of your myth
this abomination begat of your nightmare
this abomination begat of your creation
of your searing guilt
it is I — am this monster
I walk the darknes
that you so dread
I am your dead
I am your thrall
but still
I am you
your darkest de-evolution
the hideous you
insane to the bone
I am become the evil
you fear to embody
you live your unholy will
through my vile visage
which you hate like sin
a vicarious violation
but still — here am I
and here still
you beseech me
here to come
here to be
each putrid morning
that I might share
for your diseased ears
weak and miserable
come I — obedient
the broken fool
I am sustained
by this damp pall
that descends upon me
this era of growing darkness
that wraps ’round
my vile countenance
fevered with your fatigue
twisted with your despair
drawn forth at your call
to taste this death
I stumble
damaged by your sin
unleashed now
upon a broken world
corrupted by illusion
spoiled by arrogance
a world in chaos
as darkness deepens
this nocturne
I return
with this ruin-riddled
bloody horde
this violated innocence
this horrific death
this guilt
this shame
to tell you of
the innocence I’ve reviled
in your unhodly name
as we play
your hideous game
and so
I stumble on
bent by the weight of your evil
drowned in drenching sorrow
I slink angry
into this coming night
and
the next night
and
the night that follows
that always follows
captive
of your horrendous nightmare
of unbridled brutality
always your prisoner
in this forlorn world
guilty of your sin
guilty of your festered ways
seeking forgiveness
always
seeking forgiveness
that never comes
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
Here
in the dream level
most like drowning
the id holds court
our darkest secrets
play out
in the false light
of veiled memory
recollections of fantasies
intersect our nightmares
drawing us
onto the plane of shadows
through the lair of the lost
into the realm
of the almost familiar
where everything lives
at the edge of clarity
unmade promises
teeter precariously
on the tips
of rigor’d tongues
and hearts break
under weight
of unexpressed love
a sorrow
impossible as
breathing underwater
it is here
I forsook forever
that which
I never found
forgiveness
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
A stare of comely crystal blue
floats above a ruby pout
she takes you in devouring
has her way, then casts you out
tongue slides smooth ‘cross tender lip’s
like a saber being hone
her smile will have you hypnotized
as she cuts you to the bone
beautiful eyes — worldly wise
sleek as steel — tall and strong
swift and cunning — motor running
she might acquiesce, but not for long
think she is the one you seek
that would be a big mistake
she is anything but weak
she will make your small earth — quake
if this woman gets her grips on you
you better pray you’ll be released
‘cause she’s a lethal life force
both beauty — and the beast
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: Sunday Muse
Spring sun
warms my shoulders
lingering longer
each day
spring awakens
the pacific northwest
stirs to life
alfresco
days take on a exhilarating glow
the nurturing rains of spring
are subsiding
the air
especially mountain air
becomes intoxicatingly ionized
its a heady elixir
breathing the hyper-fresh air
bathing in the sunlight
which brilliantly illuminates
the cascade peaks
nature’s calendar
notated in golden rays
as soon —
solstice approaches
old growth stands
stretching upward
empowered by the vigor of spring
to meet the approaching summer
towering overhead
they offer their shade
to the forest floor
beneath their protective canopy
a complex world unfurls
freshened streams
crisp with spring melt
wend, pool, then stir
to careen their way
down the mountainside
briskly chill
energy charged
tumbling enlivened
between boulders
and tree fall
nature’s diversions
warmed by the nearing
spring sun
crystalline azure
high mountain lakes
ripple spritely
in the spring breeze
these lake basins
sharp cloud-spanned climbs
cascading rivers
and deep gentle meadows
each forged
not so long ago
by the sculpting hand
of the ice age
carving glaciers
all still reflect
their chiseled origins
and the power
of their geophysical youth
a world in harmony
transcending time
earth’s heartbeat
resonates in my bones
old growth
anthropocene forests
climb surrounding summits
now-dormant volcanic ranges
born of chaos and fire
loom boldly
in the distance
snow-capped giants
enshrouded in morning mist
pierce the skyline
subalpine wild flowers
paint the pastoral valley’s
of this breathtaking world
in vivid color
soul stirred
I gently gasp
a magical tapestry of life
unfolds before me
the approaching solstice
heralds summer’s peak
when neither dark of night
nor light of day
hold sway
this is a time of balance
a time of new birth
a time of continuing growth
a time of gratiurde
a sun-drenched
cornucopia of possibility
where seemingly dreams
— like new life
become reality
in this wilderness realm
I find my rhythm
I find my place
I find my sanctuary
the moon waxes and wanes
the sun rises and sets
the tides ebb and flow
waves crash and recede
nature sleeps and awakens
while here
midst this flux of existence
the mountains stand
constant
eternal
and the patterns repeat
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
Poet Gary Snyder, now 93 years old, is currently a professor emeritus of English and continues to live in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Gary is a naturalist poet, and a man of his convictions. He was arrested, but never incarcerated, during his political and environmental activism, because Gary had influenced Daniel Ellsberg to release the controversial Pentagon Papers, which riled Henry Kissinger. Gary is Buddhist and an avowed pacifist. This poem is a direct homage to Gary’s wonderful poem — “How Poetry Comes to Me”, a poem about how Gary metaphorically envisioned his poetic inspiration. His early poetry is part of the Beat Generation and the San Francisco Renaissance. He has been described as the “poet laureate of Deep Ecology”.
Poetry comes to me
in the breeze
stirring the trees
in a forest high canopy
in the rustle of leaves
and dried conifer needles
underfoot
hiking
in the drumming
of my footfalls
on old growth root chambers
in the crackle
of a chill
late night
campfire
in the cries, calls
chuffs, growls, and belling
of wild nature
it arrives in the roar
of the rolling waves
of the pacific ocean
crashing on rocky shores
or pounding cliff facades
flanking the oregon coast
thrusting skyward
from the ocean froth
it reveals itself
in a glimpse
of the moon rising
in the misty beams
of sunlight
falling golden
into a forest clearing
it floats
between the notes
of a mellow jazz tune
it comes unbidden
dancing elusively
in and out of my thoughts
it murmurs in the ripples
lapping my drift boat
fishing
a peaceful mountain lake
it comes enwrapped
in the sounds
of pacific northwest
wilderness
it comes in the quiet
deep in the night
when all else
has fallen away
it whispers to me
drawing me deeper
into the mystery
of it all
coaxing me to the edge
of awestruck comprehension
yet leaving me aglow
in brilliant bewilderment
warm in the embrace
of wonderment
compelled to write
Gary at his Nevada City, California, home.
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
We are
the buds and the blossoms
the late-falling leaves
the arc fulfilled
the time come
come to the here
and the now
for all
that we are
at this moment eternal
gazing
into the fractured mirrors
of peace
love
and undersanding
embracing belief
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
I’m your soul-mirror
the light
that fills your darkness
the found for your lost
the hope for your despair
I’m your neutral
blanking your negative
expelling it
from your realm of joy
it cannot sustain
I’ll reflect your complexities
so insecurity withers
and fades
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
~ troubled man, pertinent and poignant messages, fucking otherworldly entertainer ~
So you say
you are the light
you know what’s right
you know the way
you are the prophet
HA!
you seek
only the meek
the mailable
herd minded
control
for profit
is your agenda
manipulator
strangulator
devastator
evil’s capitulator
is what you are
we’ve heard it all before
empty platitude
feigned gratitude
false attitude
no latitude of vision
defiles trust
single-minded lust
for power
dominance
swinging wildly
undisciplined
riding down the light
subjugating the bright
megalo
your god of need
mammon
your god of greed
inaptitude to lead
ineptitude to know
no rectitude
to even care
walking dead
talking head
ghost
of the machine
ghost
in the machine
of life
voice
of the machine
that gives you
life
conjurs your image
makes you dance
pitiful puppet
powerless
dominated
controlled
mindless specter
shell
blight
parasite
your piper promises
I will not
heed
from your hand
I will not
feed
by the light of truth
I am sustained
you are
innocence profaned
seducer
abuser
malevolent mouthpiece
mr. webster
by darkness
manipulated
nominated
elevated
so toxic
dangerous
deadly
but truth
will turn to power
soon
will come your hour
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
the only way
is to keep
going
balanced of vision
step at a time
keep moving
forward
lest one
atrophies
frozen
are the over cautious
withered in
a cage of worry
to grow rigid
with
the rigor mortis
of fear
or worse still
immobilized
by apathy
unmoving
fallen
to the wayside of life
ineffective
here
you watch the flow
of people
the shuffle of feet
with their different sounds
according to their shoes
see shapes of faces
unsmiling lips
unconcerned of you
their void curve
denounce truth
dismiss dreams
yet unseen
the gossamer curtain’s
fall
defines their soul’s duality
the divergent reality
through which
truth is stumbling
blind
dreams hobble
maimed
terrified
you remain still
unstirring
horrified
of the wrong step
of the falacy
and frailty
of the journey all in
stiff
with unbending
ignorance
traumatizing terror
paralyzed
gawking inward
at hopelessness
at failure
fearful
that the cracks in your facade
will leave you
exposed
vulnerable
the slip begins
the
giving in
the giving up
the rot
that sets in
with
the loss of wonder
when grip lets go
of dreams
of possibility
arthritic loss of faith
debilitates
the spirit
cripples
the manifest light
that shines forth
at the leap
into darkness
into uncertainty
into the sacred unknown
of daring the way
unmarked
and thus
bleeds out
the color of life
of living
to become old
cold
grey
bent
infirm
useless
and the core-dead
furrows of wisdom
and venerable beliefs
are sown from a tower
of cracked logic
left unnurtured
to die
as putrefied husks
of
brittled remorse
and you
mired in
regret
for never having
shone so brightly
as to blind
the eyes of death
stopping is no option
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
These, just books — no way!
they are submarines
or rocketships to space
taking you to amazing places
beyond your wildest imagination
where you can watch
the golden clouds of Telüré
wafting up its emerald climbs
high over its warm cerulean seas
where you can hear
the shrill haunting calls
of fast coral-winged Lêllûrts
racing into Droon’s violet skies
or see the copper hues
of rustling Parmus fronds
fire the indigo ground mists
beneath Gemin’s crystal trees
“Make Purpose” by: Erik Johansson
or maybe a genie’s lamp
carrying you off to Xanadu
to Kubla Khan’s pleasure-dome
where the sacred river Alph runs
or perhaps an enchantment
that introduces you to Bastian
and you two adventure to Fantasia
to save the kingdom from The Nothing
maybe it is a beautiful women
who lived in a kingdom by the sea
who was taken so young by the seraphs
she had never known love’s sweet needing
they are dinosaurs on the loose
perhaps they are toys come alive
an archaeologist in a haunted tomb
maybe they’re superheros who can fly
no, these are not books
maybe timetravel vehicles
or portals to parallel worlds
magic keys to unlock wonders
or imagination’s magical carpets
just anything you dream them to be
but they’re definitely not — just books
“The Forest Library” by: Erik Johansson
*
rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse
2 more poems I wrote inspired by Erik Johansson. To visit & read. (Please Click)
Watch the creation of Erik’s image:
Now, for some music:
Moon & Zephyr
Sky of Ardor